


Snapshots

by magicalyoyo



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6522694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalyoyo/pseuds/magicalyoyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship? Friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Plagg and Adrien

**Author's Note:**

> A friend started talking about mushy Plagg and Adrien conversations and... this happened.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

 

Adrien usually didn’t mind the formal dinners, soirées and fêtes that went along with being the model son of a famous designer. He liked being around people (at least those who didn’t look him over as if they were judges in a dog show), and many of the folks who attended these events were… interesting, to say the least. Despite the air of pretentious properness that some, such as the Bourgeois family, tried to project, the truth was that wealth tended to bring out quirks. Over the past few years, Adrien had become acquainted with some of the regulars. There was the Italian photographer, who without fail swapped his normal red plaid pants for an immaculately tailored suit in the same shades. The old woman, creator of the top jewelry line in Paris high fashion, who had beckoned him over, winked slyly, and opened her oversize purse to reveal a tiny potbellied pig. There were other models, too, and by the end of the night the teenagers were usually to be found huddled in a corner or side room, giggling over trays of pilfered treats.

So overall, they were a welcome break from the busy monotony of his everyday life (outside of school and saving the world, that is). But, as always, the problem was in the _usually._ This time, in particular, was turning out to be one aggravating incident after another.

First, it felt like _everyone_ had to tell him just how much he was beginning to look like his mother – did they think he didn’t know that already, didn’t feel his heart lurch some nights when he caught a glimpse of a pair of green eyes, only to turn and find his own startled reflection? Then, as he tried to casually saunter towards the ample buffet, he stumbled into another social trap and was forced to extricate himself from the clutches of another well-meaning, but overbearing, couple, who clucked over his lean frame. The irony hurt more than the embarrassment, as he gazed longingly at a beautiful display of tiny cakes and fruit while they pinched his cheeks and frowned. 

But finally, _finally,_ he was able to sneak into an empty parlor after managing to obtain three pastries, a large glass of red wine and enough cheese to satisfy even Plagg. They settled into a dark corner with their treats, and Adrien began to relax.

Well. _Relax_ was a bit of an understatement.

It turned out that wine was much more potent when you hadn’t eaten for nearly a day, thanks to lunchtime akuma attacks and _someone_ silencing his alarm clock in the morning, which had caused him to miss breakfast as he rushed to get dressed for school. The two hours of sleep he’d managed to grab after catching up on homework probably didn’t help either (seriously, at this point Papillon was probably causing more harm to Adrien’s schedule than to Paris as a whole. He wondered how Ladybug managed it; she always seemed to be on top of things).

 So _maybe_ he was a little tipsier than he’d expected, and _maybe_ it had seemed like a perfectly natural reaction to transform into Chat Noir and slip out the window when he heard Chloé’s voice, petulant and grating, coming closer and closer as she walked down the hall outside. And _maybe,_ when he scrambled onto the roof and dropped the transformation, he realized he’d forgotten that fusing with his kwami would allow any physical conditions to carry over between them. Like alcohol, for example.

 

He absentmindedly dangled his fingers in front of the kwami’s face, giggling as the tiny cat pounced, missed, and landed face-first in Adrien’s shoe.

“Your feet smell like cheese. I _like_ cheese. I like Paris. You have good cheese.” Plagg’s voice was soft, slightly slurred, and shockingly gentle. His peevishness had settled into sincerity, and Adrien was touched.

“I like Paris too. It has your stinky cheese, and all my friends, and _Ladybug…_ Paris is good. I’m glad we’re here. On this rooftop. In Paris. It’s nice.”

“Kid, you’re pretty great too. One of the best partners I’ve ever had. Have I told you that?”

“You too, Plagg... Even if you did make me oversleep this morning, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me, like, _ever.”_

“It’s not _my_ fault you stayed up late and talked about Ladybug in your sleep all night. I was tired. But even if you keep me awake sometimes, you’re good. You’re a good friend. I only get to talk to one person. And. I’m glad it’s you, kitten.” 

“I’m glad it’s you too.”

Eventually the two fell into a light doze in the warm summer air. They never mentioned that night again. If Plagg’s sarcasm was slightly less acid and Adrien hid a smile whenever the kwami scolded him for staying up all night, it wasn’t pointed out.


	2. Adrien and Ladybug

The sky was a watercolor, fading from tangerine and ochre to the deep purple of night, night over a city that forever twinkled and shone with no regard for the hour. The streetlights were grimy, crusted with years of grit thrown up by passing cars; their yellow light felt slimy and insincere, a garish replica of the pearlescent moon and her retinue of stars. 

Adrien stumbled across the the uneven cobblestones of the alley. His eyes strained to pierce the shadows that were cast across the buildings, twisting into impossible angles and leering, quivering shapes. The not-dark-darkness felt like swimming through a murky river. As Chat Noir, he would have been nimble in the gloom. Night was his domain, after all: the inky spill of a forest, or the muddy glow of a city... it made no difference to him. But as himself, Adrien was a stranger as he tripped and jumped, the distant _whish_ of cars and _taptaptap_ of moths battering themselves against the deceitful luster of the iron lamps mere whispers against his deadened, human ears. 

A figure flickered in the sky, silhouette blurred against the colorful, colorless clouds. He pulled up short; his orange high tops squeaked against slick, damp stone. Ladybug slipped down to the street. Her suit, normally bold and demanding _(aposematism is a form of warning coloration that tells potential predators that they should seek different prey, whispers his tutor’s voice, the memory scented with oak and must)_ faded to grey without the sun’s generosity. Ladybird beetles were daylight animals, meant for flowers and lazy summer afternoons, not the creeping coldness of the witching hour. 

“It’s late. Early. Um. I-is everything okay?” Her voice was melodic, even with the stutter, and Adrien’s cheeks flamed against the cool air. 

“Yeah. You’re - it’s - I’m fine. I’m just... just going home.” Technically true. Technically false. He was, would be, walking back to the mansion, slipping through the heavy gates when the security shifts changed at dawn, becoming just a boy having an early morning walk around his garden. When did one start going somewhere? Theoretically, each person was always going, creeping forward through time, passing each event with a wave of greeting and goodbyes. It was just... roundabout. Undetermined. Or rather, unintentional. He was not yet intentionally going home, but he was drawing closer to the time when he _would_ be home. 

She gestured, fingers dancing gracefully as she spoke. “Do you want me to walk you back?” 

“Oh. No. No thank you.” That was what he said.

What he wanted to say: _Please, don’t leave._

What he wanted to say: _I love you._

They parted ways. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Please, don't leave" with Ladrien.

**Author's Note:**

> The drinking age for wine and beer in France is 16, and Europe in general is SUPER relaxed about alcohol. (though, fun fact, I did get carded in Austria. Where the drinking age is also 16. I was 21.)


End file.
